


Out of Step

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crushes, Developing Friendships, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: I take the far staircase now, every Monday and Wednesday around 10:55 in the morning, and I see him almost every time.Whenever he sees me, he smiles, and I flow down the rest of the stairs as a puddle.Today’s no exception. He smiles at me, practically beaming, and I give him a cool and composed nod in return. Or a close approximation, at least.“Hey, Baz,” he says right before we pass each other, and I nearly trip over my own feet in shock.He’s never said two words to me outside of class. Until now, that is.Nowhe’s said two words to me outside of class.Forget turning into a puddle; I think I’m about to sublimate straight into a gaseous state.Baz goes out of his way to see Simon outside of class, but what is he supposed to do when Simon comes to see him?





	Out of Step

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fluffy university AU one-shot about what happens when an awkward dork has a crush on another awkward dork. You're welcome.
> 
> And my thanks go to [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu), and the Circle of Tears, [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff) and [soultoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soultoast), for putting up with me complaining about this fic nonstop while I was writing it (and beyond) and for helping me realize that I have no idea how to write spatial relations clearly.

I almost think I’m not going to see him today. Is he late? _Am I early?_

But then I catch a glimpse of those unmistakable bronze curls, and my heart rate doubles instantly. I shouldn’t get _giddy_ over this. It’s ridiculous. He’s just a boy, for Christ’s sake.

A really fit boy.

A really fit boy who smiles at me every time I pass him on the stairs.

_Simon bloody Snow_.

He and I have a class together twice a week—Introductory Astronomy, which is just an easy science credit for non-science students—and we’ve spoken a handful of times. (I tend to sit in the same seat every week, but he likes to switch it up.) (Sometimes he ends up next to me, though…)

But it doesn’t feel like my heart is going to float out of my chest—or more likely sink into my stomach—whenever I see him in class. It’s only outside of class that I get a rush like this.

Possibly because I’m doing it on purpose.

The first time wasn’t on purpose, to be fair. The staircase I usually took after my Macroeconomics class was having maintenance work done on it and I had to take the stairs at the far end of the building. I wasn’t pleased that it was so far out of my way—the closer staircase is near the exit right by my bus stop—but when I spotted him, Simon Snow, on his way up the stairs, I no longer cared.

It wasn’t long into the semester, but he’d already caught my attention in class. It didn’t help that his freckles and moles reminded me of constellations on his skin—I noticed them the first time he sat next to me. (That was the day he introduced himself.) (And the day I knew I was done for.)

I used my usual staircase the following week, in case it was his usual as well, but I’d never seen him there before, anyway. So I made the switch.

I take the far staircase now, every Monday and Wednesday around 10:55 in the morning, and I see him almost every time.

Whenever he sees me, he smiles, and I flow down the rest of the stairs as a puddle.

Today’s no exception. He smiles at me, practically beaming, and I give him a cool and composed nod in return. Or a close approximation, at least.

“Hey, Baz,” he says right before we pass each other, and I nearly trip over my own feet in shock.

He’s never said two words to me outside of class. Until now, that is. _Now_ he’s said two words to me outside of class.

Forget turning into a puddle; I think I’m about to sublimate straight into a gaseous state.

* * *

I think I’m losing my mind.

That’s the only explanation for why I think I see Simon Snow, right now, standing beneath the rainbow flag hanging over the door, and looking completely out of his element.

It can’t really be him, of course. This is a queer resource library, and the chance of him ever needing to set foot in here is nigh impossible—my life is never that good. I have never once fancied a bloke who also fancied blokes. (Or, at the very least, they didn’t fancy _me_.)

The imaginary Simon is scanning the room, like he’s trying to take it all in slowly—it’s not a large space, but it’s crammed full of books and films and pamphlets and posters, with multi-coloured flags lining the walls. I probably looked similarly overwhelmed, my first time here.

When his eyes land on me, they light up——I can _feel_ how blue they are from over here, Christ—and I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining him. He smiles and takes a couple steps towards me before stopping suddenly, like he’s just realized that he’s been _caught_ in this place. As if I’m not also, obviously, here.

I close the book I’m reading—or the book I’ve been failing to pretend to read since he got here—and sit tall in my chair. Simon’s the first person to come by in the past fifteen minutes, since we’re closing soon anyway, so I haven’t really had to play the part of helpful volunteer until now.

“Er, hey, Baz,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as colour flushes his cheeks.

“Snow,” I reply as I curl my lip into a slight smirk, to mask my nausea. (I think it annoys him when I call him that, too.) (So of course I always do.)

“Um.” He takes another step closer, and I lean my elbows on the desk in front of me. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” I say, though the awkwardness between us is so heavy, I feel like I might suffocate.

He nods and glances around the room again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So, uh, this place is, um—”

“A queer resource library, yes.” I try not to snap at him, but I don’t know what to do in this situation.

“Cool, yeah,” he says. He’s still nodding, but he’s looking down at the floor between him and the desk and biting his lip, like he doesn’t know what to do either. It’s bloody adorable.

“Can I help you find something?” I offer, taking on a gentler tone.

“I dunno, I just…” he says before lifting his gaze to me. “Do you work here, then?”

“Volunteer.”

“Oh. Cool. Yeah, that’s… Cool.”

“It’s alright if—” I begin, but I’m not sure how to say this in a way that won’t be too presumptuous. “We respect the confidentiality of those using the library. Just… so you know.”

He looks confused for a second, and then nods again. “Right. Yeah. Good. Yeah, cool.”

I wait to see if he’s going to say anything else before I continue. “We’re closing soon, but if you want to sign something out, I can set up your membership.”

“Um. Yeah. Okay.” He closes the distance between himself and the desk and drums his fingers against it nervously.

I walk him through the membership process—name, number, email address, five pound donation—and he starts to relax his shoulders. Probably because he can tell I do this all the time. That I didn’t sneak in here just before him to pretend to be a volunteer and embarrass him. (Not that he likely was thinking that.) (I would have thought that, though.)

“Do I get a card, or…?” he says once it’s done.

“No, you just give your name when you check out a book, and whoever’s here can find you in the system,” I explain. “Or if it’s a Wednesday night, I can check you out myself.”

Fuck.

Hopefully the Earth will swallow me up so I don’t have to live with the embarrassing knowledge that I just said _that_.

I think he’s blushing a little, too, but he’s smiling like he didn’t hear me. Or at least pretending that he didn’t.

“Cool,” he says, though it sounds less like a nervous tic this time. “Sounds good.”

I clear my throat and pretend to do something on the computer. “Well, I need to lock up in a minute, but if you tell me what sort of thing you’re looking for, I might be able to recommend something quickly.”

“I, er—I don’t really know what I’m looking for,” he says, avoiding my eyes again. “Like, something basic, I guess? Just, I don’t even—There’s too much on Google, and I don’t—Where do I even start?”

“Hmm. Alright. Let me see.” I push back from the desk and stand, crossing to the far end of the library to grab two books and a flyer. He follows me uncertainly.

I hand him the books—one specifically for _questioning_ youth, and one full of common definitions, to make his Google searches easier—and place the flyer on top. “This is a hotline for students who need to talk about any of this stuff, or have questions. It’s completely anonymous, but the volunteers there are well-trained and give good advice,” I explain.

He seems a bit overwhelmed again, but nods along with everything I say. (Hopefully that means I didn’t overstep.)

“So, um,” he says as we head back over to the desk so I can sign out the books for him, “do you volunteer at this hotline thing too?”

I snort involuntarily as I pull up his membership file on the computer. “Sorry, no, I just—I’m not really good at the whole _giving good advice_ thing.”

“You seem to be pretty good at it.” He grins at me as I slip his receipts in the books and slide them over.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling back. “Goodnight, Snow.”

He scoops up the books and tucks them into his school bag, still grinning. “‘Night, Baz.”

* * *

I glance over but don’t lift my head when I hear the door open. It’s just Simon again. (As if there could be anything _“just”_ about Simon.)

“Hey, Baz,” he says as he comes in and drops his bag on the table with a thud. I hope he doesn’t have a laptop in there.

“Snow,” I say. I still don’t lift my head to acknowledge him.

“What a fucking day,” he says, flopping heavily into one of the chairs, though he seems far too cheerful about it. He sounds a bit out of breath, like he ran part of the way here. Like he was afraid of being late.

It’s not like he has to be here. He’s not a volunteer. He doesn’t even sign out books all that often. He just sits at the communal table at the front of the library—rather close to the checkout desk—and studies, usually. Sometimes he reads, but not always one of our books.

I don’t know why he does it. Why he spends every Wednesday night here. With me.

It must be dreadfully boring for him. Though I can’t say that I mind having the company.

We don’t talk much, most of the time. Occasionally he’ll ask me a question about the library. Even more rarely, he’ll ask something personal.

“Hey, are you doing anything this Saturday?” he asks now, leaning back in his seat. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s asking _me_.

“I don’t think so,” I say, even though I’m absolutely positive I’m not doing anything, because I never do anything.

“Well, ‘cos my friends are having a little party, and I thought maybe you’d wanna come,” he says, like that’s not the most absurd thing anyone’s ever said to me. “Like, it’s really low-key and chill, I think you’d like it.”

“I—I don’t—” I begin, because I don’t know what to say. “I don’t even know your friends.”

“Yeah, but,” he says, “they wanna meet you, too.” He looks a bit embarrassed.

I frown at him. “Why?”

“I mean, I—They know I… I’ve mentioned you, and… Yeah.”

“You’ve mentioned me?” I ask, unsure what to think of that.

“Well, yeah, sometimes I talk about my friends to my other friends,” he says. Which I think means I’m his friend. “Like, I’ve talked to you about Penny.”

“She’s your flatmate, Snow. She’s more of a fixture in your life than—” I cut myself off and clear my throat, returning my attention to the book in my hand before I make a fool of myself even more.

I can see him in my peripheral vision as he leans forward on the table.

“I’d like it if you came, Baz,” he says.

I clear my throat again. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

I don’t even have to look over at him to know he’s grinning.

I don’t let myself read too much into that.

* * *

This was a huge mistake.

By the time I’m standing on the doorstep of Simon’s friends’ house, I’ve come to regret a lot of my life choices that led me here. _Why did I agree to come?_

Well, because Simon will be here. Which is apparently a good enough reason for me to ring the doorbell.

Some guy, who’s even taller than I am and about twice as wide, answers promptly, and I fear I’m at entirely the wrong house. He squints at me and gives me a once-over before breaking into a grin.

“Are you Simon’s imaginary friend?” he asks, like this is the most delightful thing he’s discovered all day.

“Er, I’m—”

“Oi, Simon!” he calls back into the house behind him. “You’re right, he does look a bit like a vampire!”

“Piss off!” Simon replies with a laugh from inside.

Suddenly, the large bloke in front of me is pushed aside, and Simon appears in his place, grinning and leaning against the door frame while he catches his breath.

“Hey, you made it!” he says. His eyes do a quick scan, and I become acutely aware that I’m probably over-dressed. He’s just in a t-shirt and casual denim, while I’m wearing a full-on button-down and designer jeans under my open trench coat.

I look like a tosser.

“You look good,” he adds, and I fold my arms over my chest self-consciously. He reaches out and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, come on, then. Let’s get you a drink.”

Simon wasn’t wrong when he said this party would be _chill_. Most people are just lounging on mismatched furniture and leaning against walls, chatting in little clusters as music I don’t recognize plays in the background. I have to step carefully over someone who’s decided to stretch out on the carpet, as I follow Simon to the kitchen.

He tries to introduce me to people along the way, but I know I’ll never remember their names or faces, so I don’t even try. Not until he says a name I recognize.

“And this is Penny,” he tells me, putting his arm around a girl who barely comes up past his shoulder. She looks familiar, though.

“The flatmate,” I say with a nod, sticking my hands in my coat pockets.

“Oh, shit, your jacket,” he says, letting go of her to reach his hands towards me. “Here, I’ll put that away for you.”

The suddenness surprises me, but I slip my jacket off and let him take it to another room—I guess that means I’ll have to ask him to find it when I want to leave.

“So,” Penny says, drawing my attention away from Simon’s backside, “you’re the famous Baz.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Famous?”

“Infamous.” She raises an eyebrow in return and then laughs. “No, Simon just… mentions you. From time to time.”

“I see…”

“You’re in my Psych class, aren’t you?”

“Ah, yeah, I think so,” I say.

She asks me something about this week’s reading, probably to fill the time until Simon returns. I get the feeling she regrets saying that Simon _mentions_ me, and is trying to avoid talking about him behind his back. It’s rather noble, I suppose, except I want nothing more than to grill her on personal details of his life.

Thankfully he returns shortly; the last thing I’d want is to spend the evening discussing _psychology_.

I don’t get to monopolize his time as much as I would like, however. Soon after fixing me a drink, he gets sucked into a conversation about some video game I’ve never played, and I’m left leaning in the doorway to the kitchen like an idiot. A couple random people try to start conversations with me, but I’m not much of a conversational type. My one-word answers don’t seem to keep their interest for very long.

The music is starting to do my head in—or maybe it’s the smell of whatever the people at the far end of the house are smoking—so I retreat back into the kitchen and slump against one of the counters. I’ve only refilled my cup once by the time Simon comes in for his third since I got here. (At least _someone’s_ having a good time.)

“Hey,” he says, leaning back against the counter opposite me. “Why’re you hiding in here?”

“I’m not hiding,” I mumble as I lift the plastic cup to my lips.

He smiles weakly. “Sorry. More people showed up than I thought—I didn’t know it would be this busy.”

“It’s not all that busy,” I point out. “I’m just not much one for parties of any sort.”

“Why’d you come, then?” He sounds curious, not accusatory.

_Because you wanted me to,_ I think. Instead I say, “Because I had nothing better to do.”

He chuckles at that. “I’m glad you came,” he says. “I’m sorry I kind of abandoned you. You don’t even know anyone, and I just—”

“It’s fine.” I wave my hand dismissively.

We both sip our drinks, unsure of what to say now. (I never know what to say to him.)

“Can I—Can I ask you something?” he says, looking over at me with his head lowered.

“I suppose…”

“Why do you—I mean, how did you—Er—” He drags a hand through the front of his hair and tugs on his curls. “You know how you volunteer at the library, yeah? Well, um, what made you want to volunteer?”

I stare down into my cup, and give a small shrug. “I just think it’s and important resource. I want to make sure people can access it.”

“Er, right, but I mean—” he says, and when I look over at him, I think he’s blushing. “Is it, like, an important matter to you _personally_, or…?”

Oh.

“Are you asking if I’m gay, Snow?”

He scrunches up his face in embarrassment. Like he’s preparing for me to laugh at him. “Not—Um, I just—Kind of?” he says, but quickly continues, “You don’t have to tell me, though. I was just—”

“Yes,” I cut in before taking another sip from my cup. “It matters to me _personally_.”

“Okay, cool,” he says slowly, nodding his head too many times. “That’s… Cool. Yeah. I mean, me too.”

“Okay,” I say, and nod my head a couple times too many as well. “Good to know.”

His face lights up a bit. “Is it?”

“I mean, it’s good to know the library’s been useful to you.” I think it’s my turn to blush now.

“Right, yeah,” he says, chuckling softly again. “Well, I definitely—”

“Simon!” An exasperated sounding blond-haired girl walks up to him and steals the cup from his hand to take a drink. “You left me alone with Teddy and Ian, and they proceeded to tell me all about their Dungeons and Dragons characters, in great detail.”

“You could have just said you wanted to talk about something else,” Simon tells her as she leans into his shoulder.

I can feel bile rising in my throat—or maybe that’s just jealousy. Either way, it gets worse when Simon tucks his arm around her slender waist, like it fits there perfectly.

She tilts her head to rest it on his shoulder, and finally seems to notice me standing here. “Oh, hi,” she says to me, standing straighter all of a sudden. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Oh, this is—” Simon begins, but I cut him off.

“I’m Simon’s imaginary friend,” I say with a sarcastic smile. “And I’m just leaving.”

* * *

I forgot my jacket.

* * *

I took the old staircase this morning. And on Monday.

And I skipped Tuesday’s Astronomy class. (The material is simple enough, I’ll catch up easily.)

I just want to avoid seeing Simon’s face until I can trust that I won’t want to set myself on fire when I do.

I feel like such an idiot. When he asked if I… Well, I thought he wanted to know because he…

It doesn’t matter. He may have found the library _personally_ beneficial, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a girlfriend. I am well aware of the B in LGBTQ, and such. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. I know better than that.

I’m a constant disappointment to myself.

And while I’m not exactly surprised when Simon shows up at the library tonight, I’d been hoping he wouldn’t. That he’d have realized I had a stupid crush on him, and wouldn’t know how to face me. That he’d try just as hard to avoid me as I’ve been trying to avoid him.

But of course he didn’t.

“Er, hey,” he says when he walks in, his shoulders hunched more than usual. He’s carrying my jacket in one arm, and my chest constricts at the sight of it. “I, um—You forgot this.”

He passes me the jacket across the desk and I drape it over the back of my chair—on top of the coat I was wearing today.

“Thanks,” I say, and wait awkwardly for him to either say something else or leave.

After standing in front of me for far too long, he opts to say something. “Have you been sick?”

“Sick? No,” I say, frowning at him.

“Well, you weren’t in class yesterday,” he says. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his duffle coat, which is hanging open, and flaps the sides of it with his arms, absent-mindedly. “And I usually see you on my way to Sociology, so…”

_He missed me_, I think, and then I push the thought down where it can’t hurt me. Where it can’t give me false hope.

“I was just… busy,” I say, rather unconvincingly.

“Okay,” he says with a small nod. “I just—I hoped it wasn’t that you’re avoiding me, because of what I said at the party.”

I swallow. “Why would I be avoiding you?”

He pushes the sides of his coat in towards each other, overlapping them over his stomach. “‘Cos I asked if you—I asked something too personal, and it probably wasn’t any of my business, so I’m sorry that I—”

“It’s _not_ any of your business, technically,” I say, before he can finish apologizing for nothing. “And it _was_ personal.”

“Right, yeah—”

“But I didn’t mind.” I swallow again. _He missed me_. “I wanted you to know.”

“Oh…” He pinches his mouth to one side like he’s trying not to smile. “Okay. Cool. I… Yeah. Good.”

“I’m sorry I left all of a sudden,” I say, looking down at the desk to avoid his eyes. “I was… really tired.”

He’s smiling now, when I glance up at him. “It’s too bad,” he says. “Teddy was asking about you.”

“Who’s Teddy?”

“The guy who answered the door. He said he thought you were cute.”

My face gets hot and I feel like I might be violently ill with embarrassment. “Is—Is that why you asked me…?”

He looks embarrassed for a second, too. “God, no! No, I mean, um. That was just… curiosity. He’s—” he says, and then grimaces. “Please don’t go out with Teddy.”

“Alright, then,” I say uncertainly, though I almost want to laugh at the look on his face.

“I mean, he’s great and all! But I just—I don’t think you’d have a lot in common.”

“Noted.”

“Yeah…” He nods his head slowly and looks over at his usual chair. “Can I sit?”

“Be my guest,” I say, and he smiles at that.

We don’t talk much for the rest of the evening.

I don’t ask about his girlfriend.

I don’t think I want to know.

* * *

Apparently I walk much faster than Simon Snow.

I’ve only come to learn this because I’m walking alongside him on the way to his flat, and I keep having to slow down to wait for him to catch up. Since I have no idea where we’re going.

We could have studied in the library. Neutral territory. But he argued there was better food in his flat—and a kettle—and it would be more comfortable to do our revision there. I don’t think I want to get too comfortable, though.

I step into his flat hesitantly, but he nudges me inside—probably because I was standing in his way. I don’t know if his flatmate is home, or if she knew I was coming. (I didn’t even know until the end of class, half an hour ago.)

“Penny’s got a late class today,” he says as we take off our boots and coats. It’s like he’s reading my mind. “So we can take the living room.”

Their flat is small and a bit cramped, as though the furniture is the wrong scale. I settle on one end of the couch while Simon makes us tea. Definitely better than the library, then.

He takes the far end of the couch after he returns when a pair of steaming mugs, and gets his notebook out. Half the pages are practically falling out of it, and it doesn’t look like they’re all for Astronomy. It’s a wonder he can ever find the notes he’s looking for. (Maybe he doesn’t.)

He starts out asking for clarifications on some of the material we covered in the lecture today, and then we take turns quizzing each other about anything that might be on the final exam. At one point, when he answers a question incorrectly, he lets out a frustrated grunt and then pulls his jumper off, tossing it to the floor next to the coffee table. For a second I think he’s decided to implement some sort of _strip-studying_ game, where we remove an item of clothing every time we get an answer wrong. But I’m pretty sure he’s just warm.

“Ughhhh, I need a break,” he groans, dragging his hands down his face as he slumps against the armrest.

His notebook falls to the floor as he tucks his legs up onto the couch between us and twists around until he’s facing me. I make a point to keep my attention fixed to my laptop, though I sneak a few glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye.

“Hey, stop that,” he says, nudging my arm with his foot. “Stop studying and take a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” I say tensely.

“Baz.” He nudges me again as he draws out the vowel sound of my name. “You have to take breaks or your brain won’t work. It’s a scientific fact.”

I sigh and close my laptop before looking over at him. “And what do you know about science?”

“Uhh, I know that Jupiter has a moon named Io,” he says, grinning proudly.

“Good,” I say with a patronizing smirk. “What are the rest of them called?”

He scrunches his face up like he’s trying to remember, and then just shoves me in the hip with his foot. “Fuck off.”

I laugh and he shoves me again, so I put my laptop on the coffee table and turn to face him as well, pulling my knees up in front of me to deflect his attacks.

“Well, don’t just sit there and take it,” he says, pressing both feet against my shins, like he’s trying to push me right over the side of the couch. “You have to fight back if you want to win.”

“Win what?”

“The battle!”

“Are we battling?”

He drops his feet to the couch again and tries to slide them under mine so he can lift them. “It’s called foot-wrestling, so you have to use your feet, Baz.”

“What?” I ask incredulously, though I can’t help but laugh.

“Here, just—Put the soles of your feet against mine,” he instructs. So I do. “And then we both push with our legs as hard as we can, to try and topple the other one over, yeah?”

“I don’t under—” I say, but before I can finish, he’s pushing against me with his legs so hard that my knees hit me in the chest.

So that’s how it is, then.

I push back against his feet fast enough to catch him off-guard, and he almost rolls off the front of the couch. He quickly matches me, however, and we have a decent back and forth until I let him pin my knees to my chest again.

“Forfeit?” he says, grinning, as his chest rises and falls with his breath.

“You think I’m a quitter, Snow?”

“There’s no shame in admitting defeat.”

“You’re right,” I say with a nod. “And I’m glad you think so.”

I give one final push, with everything I’ve got, and he nearly flips over the armrest when he falls off the couch.

“Jesus Christ!” he says from the floor, but he’s laughing. “How are you so strong?”

“Played a lot of football in high school,” I explain, crossing my legs in front of me.

Simon turns himself around to face me and rests his arm on the seat cushion while sitting on the floor, looking up at me like I’ve just said something astonishing. “I didn’t know you played football,” he says. “I guess I should have asked, before I challenged you.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’d definitely win at actual wrestling though, “ he adds, still grinning. “I’ve got the upper body strength for it.”

He holds up his other arm and bends it at the elbow, but he’s not even trying to flex it. I snort, which just seems to please him more.

Pushing aside the coffee table—it’s some IKEA atrocity on casters—he shuffles over on his knees and grabs me by the legs to yank me off the couch. It only works because I’m not expecting it, and I lose my balance, toppling rather ungraciously to the floor.

He’s on me before I can get up to my hands and knees, pinning one of my arms against my back. I’ve got enough leeway to prop myself up on my other elbow, but when I try to shove him off, he’s pressing down on my back with more of his weight.

He leans down to my ear and says, in a low voice, “Ready to forfeit now, Pitch?”

I attempt another futile struggle and laugh again. “You know this is pretty homoerotic, right?” I say, though I immediately regret using the word _erotic_ in front of him.

“So?” he says, and I turn my head to eye him over my shoulder. He’s looking down at me with a self-satisfied smile.

“I’m just not sure your girlfriend would appreciate it,” I add flippantly, before I can stop myself.

He eases off of me enough to let me sit up, but he’s frowning now. “What girlfriend?”

Oh._ Shit._

“Er, sorry, I thought—I thought the blond girl at that party was—Sorry,” I say, raking my hair back out of my face as I lower my head.

“Oh, Agatha?” he says, like it’s finally clicked. “Oh, she—Well, we used to date, like a year ago, but… No, we’re just friends now.”

“Well, I’m sorry I assumed—”

“It’s fine.” He sits up properly, right next to me, and bumps me with his shoulder. “I, um—I’m not seeing anyone. By the way.”

“Okay…” I say as evenly as I can when it feels like every part of me is shaking with nerves. “Neither am I. So.”

He nods his head a few times, which I now recognize as a thing he does when he’s nervous. Fucking hell, he’s _nervous_. (I’m nervous, of course. But that’s to be expected.)

He bumps his shoulder into me again, but this time he leaves it there. I can feel his eyes on me, almost as solid as his shoulder against mine.

“Baz,” he says quietly, and I look over at him.

He’s scanning my face, his eyes darting all over, and I wonder if he’s thinking of kissing me. (_How can you tell if someone wants to kiss you? Why did no one teach me this?_)

He pulls his lip between his teeth for a second. “Um, can I—”

The front door clicks open, and Simon’s flatmate walks in, kicking her boots off haphazardly, before she notices us on the floor. I glance at Simon and notice there’s a considerable gap between us again.

I think I’m the one who put it there.

* * *

I actually thought Simon was going to kiss me that afternoon in his flat. I let myself believe it, if only for a moment.

Clearly I was wrong.

If he wanted to kiss me, he’s had plenty of chances since then. But he never invited me back to his flat before the holiday break. And he never lingered after I closed up at the library. If he was going to make his move, he’d have made it.

I’m just glad I didn’t lean in. That would have been proper humiliating.

At least he’s still talking to me.

He kind of won’t shut up.

He’s been texting me through the entire holiday—I’ve had to start keeping my mobile on silent during family dinners. (I’m not supposed to have it at the table at all, but I need to know it’s with me at all times.) (A security blanket for the modern era.)

When he texts me on Boxing Day, though, I find myself unable to keep the smile off my face, so I retreat from the sitting room to my bedroom, where my siblings can’t mock me for it.

_hey so I was thinking_

** _That’s never a good sign_ **

_stfu_  
_I was thinking_  
_if you don’t have plans for new years  
_ _you should come hang out with me and pen_

** _Why would you think I don’t have plans?_ **

_I said IF_  
_also when do you ever have plans?  
_ _:P_

** _Oh, would you look at that  
_** ** _I just made plans with someone else right this second  
_ ** ** _Ah, too bad_**

_quit being a dick  
_ _it’ll be fun_

** _Will there be beverages of the alcoholic variety?_ **

_uhhhh we have cider?_

** _Disgusting  
_** ** _Fine  
_** **_I’ll come, if you insist_**

_don’t hurt yourself_

** _I’m rolling my eyes at you, Snow_ **

_that’s fine  
_ _oh also can you bring cider?_

* * *

I’ve learned two things about Simon’s flatmate, Penny, over the course of the evening.

One: She’s clever and, when she’s not making inane chitchat about coursework, can hold a stimulating conversation.

Two: She is not a night owl.

Simon has to practically carry her off to her room before midnight—there was no way she would have made it to the countdown.

“Christ, she is out like a light,” Simon says in a hushed voice as he makes his way back over to the couch and takes his seat. The same seat he’s been in all evening—the middle seat—even though, with Penny gone, he could take the end.

He’s choosing to sit next to me.

We finish watching the movie we’d started on his laptop, which is sitting on the coffee table in front of us, before switching to a livestreaming New Year’s Eve countdown.

I’ve never really gotten into the whole New Year’s Eve thing before. Probably because, most of the time, my evening would just be spent playing board games with my _eldest_ younger sister until she inevitably crashed—well before midnight, no matter how hard she tried to stay up—and then watching YouTube videos in bed for several more hours. I wouldn’t even notice when midnight rolled around.

Simon’s still leaning on my shoulder, like he has been pretty much since Penny left, only now the clock is ticking down and I don’t know what’s going to happen when it strikes twelve.

Do people actually kiss at midnight? Is that only at parties? Is it customary to just kiss whomever you’re closest to? Or is it just for couples? What kind of kiss is it? _What kind of kisses are there?_ (_Seriously, why did nobody teach me this?_)

I expected him to chant along with the countdown for the final ten seconds—that’s a thing people do, right? But he stays silent sitting next to me, leaning against me, burning into me.

I spend the whole time staring at his hands. They’re cupped around his can of cider, holding it in his lap, and fidgeting restlessly.

“Hey, happy new year,” I hear him say, snapping me back into the moment, and I realize he’s tilted his head to look up at me from my shoulder.

_This is it,_ I think. But then he lifts his cider with one hand and holds it towards me.

“Cheers,” he adds with a smile. I tap his can with mine, and we both take another sip.

“Right, well,” I say, setting my cider down next to the laptop. Simon shifts off of me when I reach forward. “I guess I’d better head home—”

“Already?” He holds my arm to keep me from standing.

“New Year’s Eve is over, so—”

“But—But I—You—” he sputters. He scrunches up his face and then pushes it into my shoulder. “Ugh, I fucked up,” he says, muffled.

“Fucked up what?” I ask, resisting the urge to nestle into his mop of curls.

He lifts his head and eyes me pensively for a moment as he brings one hand up to the side of my neck and lets out a sigh. “Baz, can I kiss you?” he whispers, like he’s worried someone might hear him. Like he’s worried I might hear him.

I don’t think I could make words come out even if I knew what to say, so I just nod.

I hardly have to do anything. He’s guiding me by the neck towards him, meeting me halfway, and then his lips are on mine.

His mouth is warm and gentle—tentative, even—and I don’t know what I’m doing. But when he starts pushing into me, I push back. I’m not sure if it’s a good kiss; I have no frame of reference. But it feels _monumental_.

He’s clearly done this before. (_I wonder if he’s done this with a bloke_, I find myself thinking. Though I suppose it doesn’t matter.)

I have no idea how long we spend like that, but he’s smiling when he pulls away. And slightly out of breath.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he says, laughing softly.

I press my forehead against his. “How long?”

“Let’s just say, there’s a reason I hardly ever sat next to you in class,” he says, stroking his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck. “You’re a bit of a distraction, Baz.”

I huff a laugh. “And you’re a bloody nightmare, Snow,” I say before catching his lips with mine. (It’s not so tricky once you get the hang of it.) “Thank fuck for that.”

* * *

Dating Simon Snow is nothing like I could have imagined. Mostly because I wouldn’t let myself consider the possibility long enough to imagine it.

We don’t have any courses together this term, but we did find out that we share a staircase between our afternoon classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (The one close to my bus stop, conveniently.)

“Hey,” he says the first time we pass each other on that staircase, looking pleasantly surprised. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, apparently you’ll have to try harder to get rid of me,” I reply.

He grabs my forearm and drags me back up a couple steps to the nearest level, pushing me into an empty corridor.

“Hey,” he says again, as he holds onto both my hands and crowds me against a wall. He smiles at me with this strange mix of confidence and bashfulness. “Can I kiss you?”

I try to smirk in return, though I can feel my face get warm. “Simon, you don’t have to ask me every time.”

“I know,” he says, leaning in with his chin tilted up, until our lips almost brush. “I just like how you blush when I say that.”

“Fuck off—” I laugh, but he cuts me off with his mouth.

It’s fine, though. It’s good, actually.

It’s always good.

* * *

I’m going to be late for my next class at this rate. I should probably use the other staircase from now on, so I don’t get held up like this every time.

Yeah, I should.

* * *

I won’t.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know about my WIPs and other random, vaguely Carry On or fanfic-related things I like to talk about, you can find me on tumblr as [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com)!


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